This week we're reading
parashat Noach, which opens with the story of Noah and the Flood. This fall has been marked by the devastating floods of hurricanes Rita and Katrina (and, more recently, Wilma); far less destructive, though closer to home, was the New Hampshire flooding
Lorianne
chronicled here. This year, I read the Flood story and imagine the roiling waters I saw on the news, and I shudder.

It's the opening lines in particular that draw me up
short:
"When God saw how corrupt the earth was, for all flesh had corrupted its
ways on earth, God said to Noah, 'I have decided to put an end to all
flesh, for the earth is filled with lawlessness because of them: I am about
to destroy them with the earth...'" Reading those, I can't help thinking of the rhetoric of intolerance which held that God
sent Katrina to destroy New Orleans because of its supposed sinfulness.

To me that's appalling theology. (Fortunately
a lot of religious leaders agree with me.)
I can't countenance an understanding of God in which it is possible that
God sends hurricanes and floods to punish us. But isn't that what the
story of Noah tells us took place?

A literal reading of the story could support that argument, I guess. Though
even a literal reading has to
take into account God's vow, after the Flood, never to do such a thing
again. "Never again will I doom the earth because of man," God muses
to God's-self. And, later, God proclaims "I now establish My covenant with
you and your offspring to come, and with every living thing that is
with you--birds, cattle, and every wild beast as well--all that have
come out of the ark, every living thing on earth." The rainbow is given
as a sign of that eternal covenant between God and creation.

But I find literal readings of Torah in general (and Noah in particular)
problematic. As the character River
Tam says, in
an episode of the television show
Firefly,
"Noah's ark is a problem. We'll have to call it 'early quantum state phenomenon.'
Only way to fit five thousand species of mammal on the same boat."
Not only is Noah's story difficult to reconcile with logic, it's also
fascinatingly similar to the flood stories of other ancient Near Eastern cultures--notably
this
Sumerian one and the
one from the Epic of Gilgamesh--which calls its unique divine origin into question for many readers.

Although I know there are
people working to find archaelogical
evidence that the Bible is literally true, that's not my way of interacting with Torah.
I think the Noah story is more powerful when we read it metaphorically.
What matters to me is not whether and when the Flood actually took place, but what we can learn from the tale our
people has cherished for so long, and how those lessons impact the way
we face the realities of our own day.

When I read the story of Noah and the Flood, I learn that God
is capable of feeling despair at our misdeeds; that it is worthwhile to take heroic measures to preserve the variety of species on our planet; that the appropriate response to survival is praise; and that the beauty of creation can be understood as an
implicit promise from God that our relationship remains intact and
meaningful. These are powerful lessons, as resonant today as they were when Torah was first committed to parchment.

"Is the story of Noah true? Is it historical? This question distracts
from the Torah’s purpose. The Bible’s Flood story is intended to show
that God cares about both the kind of society we create and the way
we live our lives. It is this message that makes it an authentic
Jewish teaching." So writes Rabbi John Friedman in
Cast Truth to the Ground, a d'var Torah on this week's portion. When we read Torah literally, we limit it. When we read it with an eye to metaphor, we allow the living text to continue to flower.

As we read Noah this year,
may we continue to feel (and to act upon) deep compassion for victims of flood and natural
disaster around the world, and may we find in creation's rainbow of colors
a symbol of our multifaceted relationship with the Eternal, Whose presence
pervades the holy texts of our lives.

Comments

On stories and floods.

This week we're reading
parashat Noach, which opens with the story of Noah and the Flood. This fall has been marked by the devastating floods of hurricanes Rita and Katrina (and, more recently, Wilma); far less destructive, though closer to home, was the New Hampshire flooding
Lorianne
chronicled here. This year, I read the Flood story and imagine the roiling waters I saw on the news, and I shudder.

It's the opening lines in particular that draw me up
short:
"When God saw how corrupt the earth was, for all flesh had corrupted its
ways on earth, God said to Noah, 'I have decided to put an end to all
flesh, for the earth is filled with lawlessness because of them: I am about
to destroy them with the earth...'" Reading those, I can't help thinking of the rhetoric of intolerance which held that God
sent Katrina to destroy New Orleans because of its supposed sinfulness.

To me that's appalling theology. (Fortunately
a lot of religious leaders agree with me.)
I can't countenance an understanding of God in which it is possible that
God sends hurricanes and floods to punish us. But isn't that what the
story of Noah tells us took place?

A literal reading of the story could support that argument, I guess. Though
even a literal reading has to
take into account God's vow, after the Flood, never to do such a thing
again. "Never again will I doom the earth because of man," God muses
to God's-self. And, later, God proclaims "I now establish My covenant with
you and your offspring to come, and with every living thing that is
with you--birds, cattle, and every wild beast as well--all that have
come out of the ark, every living thing on earth." The rainbow is given
as a sign of that eternal covenant between God and creation.

But I find literal readings of Torah in general (and Noah in particular)
problematic. As the character River
Tam says, in
an episode of the television show
Firefly,
"Noah's ark is a problem. We'll have to call it 'early quantum state phenomenon.'
Only way to fit five thousand species of mammal on the same boat."
Not only is Noah's story difficult to reconcile with logic, it's also
fascinatingly similar to the flood stories of other ancient Near Eastern cultures--notably
this
Sumerian one and the
one from the Epic of Gilgamesh--which calls its unique divine origin into question for many readers.

Although I know there are
people working to find archaelogical
evidence that the Bible is literally true, that's not my way of interacting with Torah.
I think the Noah story is more powerful when we read it metaphorically.
What matters to me is not whether and when the Flood actually took place, but what we can learn from the tale our
people has cherished for so long, and how those lessons impact the way
we face the realities of our own day.

When I read the story of Noah and the Flood, I learn that God
is capable of feeling despair at our misdeeds; that it is worthwhile to take heroic measures to preserve the variety of species on our planet; that the appropriate response to survival is praise; and that the beauty of creation can be understood as an
implicit promise from God that our relationship remains intact and
meaningful. These are powerful lessons, as resonant today as they were when Torah was first committed to parchment.

"Is the story of Noah true? Is it historical? This question distracts
from the Torah’s purpose. The Bible’s Flood story is intended to show
that God cares about both the kind of society we create and the way
we live our lives. It is this message that makes it an authentic
Jewish teaching." So writes Rabbi John Friedman in
Cast Truth to the Ground, a d'var Torah on this week's portion. When we read Torah literally, we limit it. When we read it with an eye to metaphor, we allow the living text to continue to flower.

As we read Noah this year,
may we continue to feel (and to act upon) deep compassion for victims of flood and natural
disaster around the world, and may we find in creation's rainbow of colors
a symbol of our multifaceted relationship with the Eternal, Whose presence
pervades the holy texts of our lives.